


10 years apart, no more

by Izzy_Grinch



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: (all over the place), (of sorts bc Eivor always has to make things difficult), (tons of it), Bad Puns, Banter, Childhood Memories, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Humor, IT'S A WILD FIRE too bright to watch hold on to your sunglasses everyone, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Self-Doubt, Teasing, Travelling together, a flickering flame my ass, a romance these two deserve, but still somehow a lot of sexual tension, fixing what Ubisoft has fucked up since forever, like VERY bad puns (you've been warned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29790678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch
Summary: Eivor doubts every single thing, and Vili is burdened with grief. It's a mess, really. But they have a two-day-long journey ahead of them, ten years of unresolved longing, and one simple feeling both are too scared to name aloud.
Relationships: Eivor/Vili Hemmingson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	10 years apart, no more

They kiss slowly at first as if unsure, as if getting used again to what they have forgotten already after all these years. They did this before, not even once but not going the full way either, more like messing around just for the sake of brushing lips and muffled chuckles, just to make their youthful blood boil less and rush quieter. _It’s not like they were in love._ They were young, indeed, and reckless, and they did things they were not supposed to, riling up the bears, sending fire arrows flying to the enemy camp and watching from the trees how the mongrels curse and shovel snow at the flames, stealing horses and bringing them back along with the spunky stories of how they fought the sneaky bastards who took them; kissing, too. Eivor remembers these lips. He doesn’t remember a shallow scar splitting the bottom half in two, as well as this mouth opening so wide, claiming him so shamelessly and grunting when Eivor’s knee is placed too hastily between his legs.

“Ahh, this Eivor I know. Kicking people in the balls just to prove his point.”

“I’ll kick you again if you don’t shut up.”

Vili cups his cheek severed with an old gash, then slips his hand into Eivor’s hair and pulls him closer as if there is still place left between their faces. Eivor feels his fingertips sliding up his neck, between the braids and messy strands that haven’t seen a brush in weeks, almost since he left the village and guided the longship north. Vili kisses him deep and breathless; it seems like they’ve been doing this for hours, and as warm as Vili’s hands are Eivor realizes his own ones start to grow numb of cold. He lifts his head, struggling under the heavy palm that’s eager to pull him back into the kiss.

“Besides,” he says, amused, and Vili’s eyes under the half-closed lashes gleam with expectancy, “we both know you descend not from people, but troll-folk. So...”

“Yeah? And what does it make you then, Eivor the Troll-Plowed?”

“You keep talking.”

He fumbles with Vili’s brigandine and numerous belts and his own sash that gets in the way, until his freezing hand crawls under the edge of Vili's tunic and down into his pants. Vili jerks away just ones, but for Eivor straddled upon him it feels like Thor dropped his hammer in the nearby mountains and caused an earthquake. Next thing he knows he’s under an avalanche of Vili’s body, sprawled over the fur cloak, the only piece he’s managed to actually take off Vili, wrists securely fixed and Vili gleaming both with irritation and glee.

“Could’ve said you’re so cold, I would’ve fucked you sooner.”

“My apologies, I was too busy tracking you down in the woods.”

Eivor stirs under the weight, fingers fisting the air in a desperate need to break free and touch him again, and hold to him, and feel his skin. Either this, or fight and wrestle until he’s pinned face down and thoroughly wrecked to the point his bones would ache come morning. He bucks into Vili when he leans down with a kiss which never happens, because Vili just laughs softly and suddenly pushes away, first onto all fours, then into a standing position to stoop over and yank at the blanket with Eivor disheveled onto it, dragging him closer to the fire.

“It’s not even that chilly compared to Norway, and you’ve lived there much longer than me.”

His smile is soft; he jokes and thinks himself funny. Eivor gives him a long, blunt look and says a little bit absentmindedly, the words forming faster than he has time to think them over:

“That I have. But it was getting colder with every passing year.”

Vili’s expression stiffens for a moment, but the following kiss is gentler than the early sunbeams stealing away the last bits of sleepiness when Eivor leaves the longhouse at dawn. He feels like choking on his own heart helplessly fluttering up his throat. They can’t and don’t want to undress, only removing the weapon belts and undoing the laces where needed and locking fingers briefly when their hands meet in a hurry. They pant slightly, breathing into the inches of warm air between their faces. Vili’s palms are large and heavy, have always been, wide enough to catch both Eivor’s when they were sparring at the seashore, or to scoop some fresh water for Synin to perch on his forearm and drink, or to cover a nasty wound, hiding it from a healer’s gaze, not seeking to be locked up and fussed over while Eivor would enjoy all the fun outside. Wide enough and quick enough to work them both until Eivor whines involuntarily, pushing at Vili’s chest, however uncertain if he wishes him to stop or proceed. Their noses touch, and Eivor exhales, just to take his mind off the seething fervor inside and distract it with something else for a while:

“Feels like my ass is on fire.”

“Oh, don’t worry, it will be in a minute.”

He easily rolls Eivor over himself, shielding him from the dancing flames and reaching out to toss away a tangled mess of their belts. Eivor yelps as his hand returns fistful of snow and slaps him on the naked buttocks, face triumphant with sweet revenge. Eivor squirms, trying to hurl his lower body at Vili in an attempt to kick him good, only to end up seized, Vili’s solid arm around his knees, hoisting them up onto his shoulder. They could’ve used some wool yolk mixture, Eivor thinks, adding his spit to an already moistened palm, slick with Vili’s own saliva and melted snow; he keeps it in the saddlebags to maintain the axe blades clean and sharp, but their horses are nowhere to be seen, and, honestly, he couldn’t care less about either of these things right now when Vili folds him in two. He fucks him at a measured, steadfast pace, clothed chest heaving while pressed to Eivor’s calves, and Eivor is torn between throwing his head back to arch like a bow, or keeping his eyes on Vili to take the sight in and never miss a single detail, even the smallest ones: the way his hair is ruffled, eyes half-lidded, mouth opened, smile faintly tugging at the corners of his lips. He shudders at the approach of his release, when everything tightens inside, stiffening like the air does the moment before the old ruins cave in or the branches give up under the weight of weekly snow. Vili leaves his body to grip them both, hot and heavy, and say in a strained voice:

“Let’s finish together.”

“I’ll come first.”

“Hey, we’re not in Ulkerthorpe anymore, and you took the spear already.”

“Seems like I took them both− the spears−” Eivor bares his teeth in a wide grin, immediately broken with a moan.

“Ah, aren’t you the greedy one.”

With the pleasure quickly rolling through and fading away like the tidal foam vanishing on the sand, everything else comes crashing at him again, the actual reason they’ve happened to be there for, the decision he’s been asked to take, the grief still clenching their hearts. Whatever choice he makes will be the right one. But how does he know what is right here and now? Is it right to be selfish, just once? Is it right to force responsibilities and power on those who don’t hunger for them? Is it right to think about only the two of them, or about everyone else but them? And was it right to track Skolla down and try to lure her away with him, so that maybe, _maybe_ if she hadn’t answered Vili’s call for just a day longer, he would have come searching for her, refused to board the ship until she’s found and would have not crossed the sea at all? But Skolla always knew better. She run away as soon as the darkness fell; Eivor wanted to follow her back to Vili, but they had already made their farewells the day before, and it was so sickening to let the goodbyes drag any longer that Eivor never came to see the sails setting in the morning.

He watches Vili clasping the weapon belts around his waist again; fire burning low and night watered down with a pale morning slowly creeping in. He should say what’s gnawing on him, make it easier for both, but when Vili’s name falls hoarsely from his lips and Vili turns to look at him, brows raised expectantly, there is a lump in Eivor’s throat which he can’t make go away. Concerned, Vili takes a step to crouch in front of hm. Eivor closes his mouth, then opens it again, pushing the words past the lump, but at least now these words won’t cut his tongue like shattered seashells, as the knot in his chest uncoils slightly:

“You don’t have to do this alone, Vili. If you want me by your side to help with preparations, I can go with you.”

For a couple of seconds Vili doesn’t move at all, even his breath seems to linger in the lungs before finally coming out with a small “yeah”.

“Yes, I want.”

They look at each other as if waiting for something else to say or still trying to comprehend what’s been already said, then Vili stands up and offers Eivor a hand. The touch is confident and warm, and pulls him up in one smooth motion.

The hour is early, but Hemthorpe stirs in disarray no matter the time, things being misplaced and people arguing on the most ridiculous matters; it keeps them busy and on foot for as long as it’s possible to bear with it. They have a short nap; Vili goes off first, somewhere in the darker corner of the longhouse, snoring softly, then Eivor, right at the table, head on his folded hands and neck sore afterwards. They meet occasionally in the different parts of the village and exchange knowing glances or thoughtful smiles, and even stop for a while to sit on a fence outside and chew on some flatbreads, throwing crumbs at the chickens that gather around.

There is a moment of stillness before the fire will be lit up on the hill. Eivor finds himself in the empty room where Hemming Jarl said his last words to them. The bed is covered and stools moved back to the walls, and so he sinks down on the floor, back to the bedframe, knees to his chest, and just lets the noises outside blur together until the only thing he knows is a hollow silence, coating him like a bleeding candlewax. When Vili finds him to walk together to Odin’s Rest, Eivor looks up and says like he’s a helpless, naive child again:

“It’s not fair.”

Vili is towering over him, then tumbles down, too, their shoulders and thighs brushing. There’s not much he can respond with to make it better.

“It’s been only a day, but it feels like a year, and I already miss him terribly.”

Eivor wants to snap it’s been ten damned years for him, all wasted for naught chasing a man he killed in a short fight and felt nothing but dull disappointment; instead of living his life, raiding foreign lands with those who considered him a family, discovering something more aside from those icy peaks that tear the skies apart, auroras that snake endlessly beyond horizon and Dag’s stupid jokes, endless, too. He never called, never dared to call Hemming “father” for he had Styrbjorn to be the one, but Hemming called him “son” so often that Eivor would believe some days he actually was. He swallows a weak whimper when Vili’s arm wraps around his hunched back.

“Do you remember the first time he took us raiding? You were so eager you brought his great axe but couldn’t even lift it; said you were going to fight with it.”

Eivor scoffs.

“You brought a twig.”

“A sturdy one, the best of its kind. I killed a bear with it.

“It was a raspberry bush, Vili.”

“Yeah, and the bear was inside. Oh how it roared!”

Eivor grunts and nudges him slightly. Although Hemming claimed it to be a real raid, none of them fought that day for it was merely a friendly visit to a neighbor farm, and Vili and Eivor were just credulous younglings too easy to trick. Hemming told them, amused, they would feast tonight on whatever animal they could manage to catch. What a pitiful sight they must had been. They went for a cow, but she noticed neither the two of them not their puny efforts to move her from where she stood chewing; they scared the pigs away and ended up looking like some of them, dirty from head to toe but happy anyway. It was a big pup they returned to Hemming with, she followed them herself and gave Eivor a good fright when he noticed a wolf-like silhouette crossing the street. Eivor doesn’t remember if Hemming chided them for unleashing chaos in the pens, but he remembers how Hemming teased them for finding themselves a whelp as unruly as they both were. He let them keep her. She was named Skolla, and they made sure, to Hemming’s serene embarrassment, the entire village knew she was their sister. She disappeared into the woods eight years after Vili had left to England; Eivor looked for weeks, and cried kneeling in the snow when he realized she was to return no more.

“I’m sorry.”

His whisper is barely audible, but Vili still heeds it somehow.

“What? Why?”

“I did some stupid things.”

Vili squeezes his shoulders a little, then pulls him closer, and they have to move awkwardly to adjust their legs and bodies into a hug, the one that envelopes Eivor’s frame entirely with Vili’s.

“Well, that’s because you are stupid, Little Raven.”

Eivor hasn’t heard this name in years and almost misses the other part. He draws back from where his face was buried under Vili’s chin and looks at him, puzzled.

“You meant to say ‘were’?”

“No, no, you are, still.”

Vili beams as Eivor leans even farther away to watch his smug expression.

“Mind that I’ve made an alliance with every son of Ragnar and almost no one died.”

“It doesn’t make you smart, just lucky,” he smiles with the most sincere shit-eating grin he can master, and as annoying as it is Eivor feels his heart falter for just a second. “You couldn’t tell my father’s wording in his letter from my own.”

“Nothing like that. Half-way up the swan road I realized you would probably not even know how to write. I knew it was a trap all along.”

“Oh, did you now?”

The trap seems to shut on him with every minute spent in Hemthorpe. They look at each other; the stares linger, and the silence does too. Eivor notices his hand is still on Vili’s shoulder, the thumb stroking absentmindedly the patch of exposed skin between Vili’s brigandine and his jaw. He is the first to lean in and the first to recoil immediately as Trygve’s voice comes from the doorway:

“I don’t wish to interrupt, young lords, but the people have gathered. It is time.”

With sly glances and shy smiles they quickly untangle and head out, Vili first and Eivor a few steps behind. The way Trygve watches them, intently, mindfully, makes Eivor tarry a little, awaiting a question maybe or an advice of sorts, but the man only nods with a quiet confession:

“I’m glad you’re here, Eivor. You make it bearable for all of us.” Trygve pats him on the back, reassuringly, and they follow Vili through the streets and narrow passage up onto the cliff.

They smell of smoke and mead, and their voices are lost in the noise of a cheering crowd and music echoing in the hall. The night is young, offering enough time to get as drunk as possible, and Eivor is very consistent in his intentions.

“Shall I show you to the nearest hog’s pen?”

“What, has Trygve Jarl already banished you from the longhouse and assigned to a place more suitable?”

Vili gives him a hearty laugh. Since the new jarl has been announced, it seems like a burden has finally dropped off his weary shoulders; however Eivor still can feel the one sitting on his own, secured with indistinct doubts, and as soon as Vili gets dragged into a drinking challenge, he finds his way to the jarl. Eivor fills their mugs and says a toast, and they drink in agreeable silence between the two of them. Then Trygve speaks, averting Eivor’s attention from the mist of restless thoughts and candle fire he was teasing his fingers with.

“When you were merely pups and used to sneak away to explore beyond the village, mostly to the places that were forbidden and of great danger, it was me who Hemming Jarl would ask to search for you. For the reasons unknown he considered me aware of all your hiding spots, all those little caves and tree branches high above the ground you liked to call your forts. The truth is, I never was, and I had to track you for hours in the loose snow, among the trails of wolves and elks, equally menacing to cause harm even to a skillful warrior. There were people in the woods, too, worse than animals, but it never stopped you. Each time I learnt about a new place, the next day you would change it as if wishing to never be found again, a game you enjoyed all too much, but a game that eventually cost me all my hair.”

He chuckles softly.

“However, Hemming Jarl usually seemed untroubled, and so I asked him once about it. With a knowing look in his eyes, he told me: “It is not the two of them I worry about, but those who they will meet along the way.”

Eivor turns to him, not entirely sure if he heard it right, as Trygve sends him a fond look over the mug and laughs quietly. Eivor sneers into his mead.

“Was it before or after we found a lost drengr, alone and growling like a madman? We barely escaped!”

Trygve shakes his head.

“It was the next morning I came there to see for myself, and found a crooked pine instead, creaking under the weight of its years.”

“A pine? Are you− Well, it did look ominous in the dark.” They snicker joyfully. “Don’t tell Vili then, he still−”

“Don’t tell Vili what? Already plotting with our new jarl?”

Vili smiles, straddling the bench, and peeks at him from behind Trygve where he is seated between them. The celebration booms like fire in the roasters; they talk and drink, and it’s bitter-sweet but it feels like home. He hasn’t slept that good in months, tucked in some cozy corner with furs, pillows and dogs, shuffling lazily at his side.

He meets Vili again at noon, at the stables where they’re packing their bags for the road.

“How’re the hogs?” Eivor asks casually and glances at him over the saddle.

“Oh, they’re just fine, thanks. Heard you cuddled with the hounds and then someone came there to throw up a whole bucket of mead right next to your pack?”

“Wasn’t me. Surprisingly...”

There is not much left to be done in Hemthorpe, and soon they ride off, taking a moment to watch the smoke still rising from Odin’s Rest. Trygve suggested they should take one of the clan’s longships, but they refused politely because Eivor’s crew was waiting for them in Snotingham; although it was hardly the main reason. They follow the river anyway, then turn east onto the path leading them between a snowy plateau overlooking the settlement, and a mountain with some crumbled ruins on its top. Vili tells him about the land which seems to have grown on him after all; about the Picts’ camp in the forest he raided with other warriors, there were so many bears in cages they didn’t know what to do with them; about the cursed place a little afar from the road, the evil tokens removed and burned but air still heavy with malice; and even about the lost drengr, forever stuck in those sorry ruins above. Eivor scoffs.

“Are you sure−”

“I saw him with my own two eyes, just like I’m seeing you right now! Well... maybe not that close... Look.” Vili points with his hand, almost hitting Eivor on the nose. There is a faint glow of a burning campfire there, of a tired soul in a bitter waiting for the day the valkyries will carry it over the Bridge.

The night catches upon them quickly since they hit the road so late in the day, and as Daelfun glimmers with its welcoming lights on the opposite river bank, they decide to stay in the rocky opening in the woods, away from people, their backs guarded with huge boulders and front fenced with horses they have laid to sleep. It’s cold, and Vili shares his woolen cloak with Eivor while waiting for the fire to grow stronger; their sides pressed tightly and heat rolling in waves from both of them, but mostly Vili, until it’s warm enough, but even then they don’t try to sit aside. Vili shifts above him, and Eivor feels like maybe he’s about to bury his face into the braids up there; the thought so foolish it’s almost embarrassing, but Eivor wishes he would. Instead, Vili says:

“You stink like a wet dog.”

Eivor jerks his head up with a caustic “and you stink of−” on his tongue, but it dies the second their eyes meet just inches away from each other. Suddenly, his throat is too dry, heart too fast, and mind blank with only one thought dashing inside like a firefly in the cupped hands. He whispers it out:

“Vili...”

It sounds like a question, a request, a plea, and Vili answers them all at once, with a kiss heavy on Eivor’s lips and hands gently guiding his face. They are still claimed by grief, but somehow it’s different now, just an ounce lighter maybe. He wants to say something stupid, and so he repeats Vili’s name, stupid enough to be muttered like this and then moaned cautiously into his skin. Their hands start to wander as if confused about what to pull on first, or hold to, or brush benignly, and Eivor gives in to the touch when Vili palms the back of his neck and slowly lowers him on the blanket crumpled over a pile of fir branches. They grind together, first almost unknowingly, then harder, lips and chins wet with how much they’re kissing. Each thrust makes Eivor feel the branches digging into his back and the thick resin smell filling his nostrils. Then Vili presses his mouth into Eivor’s collarbones, uncovered from under the fur of his own cloak, and growls like a beast these furs used to belong to. Eivor stills and shivers, all at the same time. The hunger is immense. Vili sits up, Eivor’s eyes following his every move, the chill slipping between their bodies is harsh and unwanted.

“Roll over.”

He hesitates. The desire to be taken raw or to look at Vili as if to always have a tangible evidence of his existence here and now are equally ardent, but it seems impossible to choose. Vili pledges him with a gentle twit in his voice:

“Eivooor... I’m not going to disappear, just roll over. And I definitely won’t put any snow in your pants. Maybe...”

He pats him on the thigh and yanks his unlashed breeches down as soon as Eivor complies. The weight of Vili’s body is intoxicating; Eivor feels his bones and muscles straining in the most preferable way that lacks in the tiresome tension which usually pulls him apart after a long day in a saddle, in a battle or aboard the ship. Vili moves deliberately steady like he’s trying to test their limits. He pants heavily, breathing out Eivor’s name again and again, and Eivor holds back his own noises to listen to every one that Vili makes. Then suddenly his hair is brushed to the side and Vili’s lips are at his tattooed temple.

“Nobody can hear you there, you know?”

Eivor scoffs, winded.

“Is it a threat?”

“Well, it is actually.”

“You want me to scream your name, scare−“ Eivor chokes when Vili pounds all the way into him again, “−the horses away? Hemmingson!”

Vili gives out a tiny laugh.

“That won’t do.”

“Ah, Arse-Stick then!”

“Nooo!”

They both are shaking with a boiling combination of lust and laughter.

“No?”

“Not with my stick up your arse.”

“No, Vili−”

The name turns into a whine, both of how they chuckle violently and how Vili’s hand slips under his tunic, glides across his stomach and pulls him up into a strong embrace. The touch is so unexpected that it sets his entire body ablaze, and his insides sink just like when he takes a long leap into the water way down below. His climax is instant and vigorous, and Vili gives him some time before pulling out and finishing too.

They rest, cuddled together, as the alarmed horses bow their big heads down after watching them warily for a while. They’re hot under the covers and their clothes, and despite the fact the blanket is stained, although Vili flipped it over and said it was as good as new, it’s still nice. Eivor feels sleepy, but what’s more important he feels calmness flowing through him. The hoarse voice somewhere at the crown of his head says:

“I love your hair.”

“And yours looks ridiculous.”

Vili brings their temples together and grazes his stubbly one over Eivor’s smoothly shaved; it’s prickly and tickling, but nothing he wants to wriggle away from or from Vili in particular. They sleep entwined with each other like those endless patterns carved in shields, and house pillars, and garments too.

In the morning they continue travelling farther in the south. It’s just a day ride from the moment they enter Sherwood Forest, and even if they walk on foot, they’ll meet the longship crew in the evening. With cloaks finally rolled up and fastened to the saddles, they follow the trodden road for a while, enjoying the softer weather and change of scenery. They make a brief stop to fulfill their needs, and as they wander deeper off the path, horses following obediently and Synin scanning the canopies from above, Eivor thinks of what Trygve told him in the rowdy longhouse. They never actually tried to run away and never thought of it seriously for there was no necessity for such measures. Both had a place to return to, and people who loved them dearly, and above all things they had each other. Even the distance between their villages was not much of a problem; if they wanted to they would meet anyway to find another well-hidden cave to play in and pretend they were bears or dragons or mighty warriors who had just slain those mighty beasts. They came to know every three worth knowing, and every game trail, and what parts of the forest the wolves roamed through, and if Skolla wasn’t anywhere near to scare off the predators, then young Synin would always warn them beforehand.

However, once, just once, they almost made it to the ship. It was the day their chaotic nature took over and they accidentally burned an entire coop, with all the chickens inside; it was horrible, they felt horrible, and that time they didn’t get away with it. They had already caused a lot of destruction that summer, with Eivor finally learning to fight and Vili eager to raise Hel on every bandit camp built too close to the village. They didn’t consider themselves kids anymore, but they were still seen as ones, and so Hemming made a decision to separate them for a night, aware that they always sit up late, talking and even fighting sometimes, to the great annoyance of those around who sought some rest. He never meant the punishment to last forever, just that night, for them to wake up early and start rebuilding the coop anew; but they didn’t know. Eivor stayed in Trygve’s room and declared he’s never talking to the old man again, while Vili was sent off to the barracks to sleep among the warriors. Guilt gave way to anger. As soon as Eivor heard Trygve snoring, he climbed the wall and walked the ceiling beams over the heads of raiders, their jarl and those who Eivor thought were ordered to keep him inside the walls if he tried to sneak away. They were not, of course, but he didn’t crave to find out. He craved Vili and Vili only; _it’s not like they had been in love_ _by then,_ no. They had grown up to become a boiling mess, to have minds alike and stupid nicknames, and they fit each other’s embrace just perfectly.

They met outside because Vili was already halfway back to the longhouse himself. Then they made up a vague plan to wait in an empty fisherman’s hut, somehow get aboard one of those longships in the docks and get off on the nearby isle. The hut part worked flawlessly. Its owner was away, fishing at the western shores, so they came in, huddled on the furs and dozed off immediately to wake up to the sound of Trygve’s voice asking if even Gleipnir itself would have been able to keep them apart. Instead, the sound of a distant battle horn and some sea foam did it years later.

They kiss under a wrinkled oak; Vili’s back is flat against its trunk, the leaves are falling around, all shades of gold, and rust, and clotted blood dancing together. Then Eivor finds himself kneeling in the moss, hands on Vili’s thighs, the flaps of his brigandine spread, the hem of his tunic stuffed into the belts, the waistband and his pants loose and sinking low right in front of Eivor’s face. He looks up to feast on how the coal-black lashes are thick over Vili’s almost closed eyes, and how his cheekbones are tinted with pink, the scar on the left one darker than usual, and how his full lips are parted slightly in anticipation. It’s just a single tilt of his head forward, but when Eivor finally goes for it, Vili says:

“They’re watching, again.”

Eivor feels his stomach drops.

“Who’s watching?”

“The horses.”

There’s a moment of shocked confusion before Eivor looks over his shoulder and sees their mounts staring silently while chewing on some withered grass. Eivor glares back at him, as furious as Vili is smug.

“Gods, Vili− do you always have to ruin everything?”

“Learned it from you, Chicken-Draugr.”

He tucks some stray locks behind Eivor’s ear and tangles his fingers into the rest of them, and when a torturous while later Eivor is done with him, it’s Vili who’s ruined. He thinks how much dignity is still left in him to say it aloud; not much it seems as he opens his mouth again but is abruptly pulled up into a kiss. It’s leisurely and exploring, although quite short. Vili makes a face.

“Tastes awful.”

“Still better than what we had for breakfast.”

They scoff, delighted nonetheless.

“You said it’s salmon!”

“You said you could cook, Arse-Stick!”

“No-no-no, it’s probably the feathers in your ears,” he tries to adjust his clothes with one hand and hold Eivor close with another, but eventually has to let go. “I said I could take care of it, meaning to look after while you’re busy satisfying your duck needs at the river.”

“It’s called washing. You could try it sometime.”

With a palm to Vili’s chest Eivor pushes away from him just to be caught again, and crowded gently, and meet the oak with his own back now.

“I could take care of you too, you know?”

“And turn me into the coals as well?”

Eivor smiles almost sheepishly, his boldness and nerve gone under Vili’s suggestive smirk. It’s so easy to yield to him when they’re not wrestling in the Norwegian mud, or arguing about whose father can drink more, or rushing to get someplace faster than the other. It’s so easy to−

Eivor shuts his eyes and exhales through his teeth, jaw clenched, forehead pressed to Vili’s. His hand is tight around him, and when Eivor flinches it’s at the sound of a wolf’s howling, lingering between the trees, ringing, eerie, near. Vili’s voice fills his ears instead, a soft whisper:

“They won’t get any closer. There’re too many of us, axes and horses. They won’t hurt you.”

Eivor’s knuckles are white on Vili’s shoulder, pulse racing, but blood too hot with pleasure to turn cold from fear. There is no more howling, no rustle of the paws over dead leaves, no heavy breathing of a gaping maw; there is only Vili.

They get back on track and continue steadily, the distance fading under the hooves. Snotingham is not that far now, but the closer they get the stronger grows that blurred desire deep inside of him to pull at the reins and slow his horse into a simple walking gait. Eivor knows it’s childish as he knows his childhood has ended long ago. Vili is the one to halt all of a sudden.

“Looks like trouble.”

A scene in front of them is painted with gore and severed limbs, scattered food and broken carts, right at the bridge crossing. They approach just in time to see a bunch of feral Picts creeping out from every direction to swarm a single hooded man still standing. They don’t need to know the whole story to charge straight into the fight and finish it after a dozen of axe swings and some arrows sent to end off those who tried to escape; the local tribes have always been a poisonous torn in everyone’s side. The stranger reveals his people were ambushed and overwhelmed with enemy forces, while he himself has barely made it out alive, twice now since Eivor and Vili interfered. As they help him to fill some bags and boxes with what isn’t yet stomped or damaged too badly, he invites them to a secret hideout where the rest of his band, or the Merry Men as they call themselves, await the news. They exchange excited glances and agree immediately, like a couple of kids promised an adventure.

They meet the evening there, in a small camp, securely guarded by the thick walls of trees, sharing tall-tales, roasting a boar and participating in an archery competition. It’s barely a challenge until Eivor’s asked to hit a chicken up on the cliff afar, a bleak dot slightly dangling in the wind. He aims.

“Give me this and stand aside,” comes Vili’s voice, and Eivor watches him taking a bow from a giant-like man and nocking an arrow. They shoot at the same time, and the chicken falls of its pole.

“I hit the rope.”

“Nah, it was the strength of my blow that tore it off its ties.”

“You wish, Arse-Stick.”

“Ah, you’re sore just because you have a poor history with chickens, Eivor.”

Eivor nudges him revengefully, but then quickly reminds himself they’re not alone anymore, which allows Vili to boom with a mocking laughter for as long as he wants. Then the night falls, and it becomes quite clear they’re spending it here to enter Snotingham and join the crew in the morning. Somehow, rolling his blanket next to Vili’s, Eivor is relieved. Maybe it’s not that bad to have a moment for themselves, after all.

Hours past midnight he wakes up to a strange sensation, and it takes him a long minute to realize where it’s coming from. They’ve been sleeping back to back, so he can’t see Vili’s face but can see his shoulders startling every now and then. Suddenly, Eivor is so scared he’s almost unable to make a coherent sentence. He leans over and touches Vili with caution.

“Vili?! What’s wrong?”

He’s crying, that’s what, and Eivor can’t remember when he saw him doing this last time, if ever. Even when they were small, even when it hurt the most. He leans lower to catch a husky whisper:

“I miss my dad.”

“Oh, Vili...”

Eivor climbs over him clumsily, slips an arm under Vili’s head and pulls him closer, his wet face buried into Eivor’s neck, his breathing sharp and uneven. Vili doesn’t hug him back right away, but when he does, it’s so tight, nearly desperate. They lie silent for a while, then Eivor speaks up:

“He used to take us hunting, did it many times, taught us a lot, but do you remember the one at the lake? We rode and rode, and before we got to the spot a frozen lake appeared spread in front of us, a bright blue patch on the canvas of blinding white. He said he would show us how to glide upon the ice like a boat skims upon the waves. Then he roped those smoothly polished bones to the soles of our boots and to his own ones too, got on ice, and it looked like he was flying along the surface without even touching it. When he returned to us, you were so very angry. You thought it to be some devious dark seidr. Do you remember what he told you then? Vili?”

Vili stirs slightly, and his words stick warmly to Eivor’s skin:

“...he said that seidr would take only those of faint heart.”

“And the next second you already were in the middle of the lake, shouting something about me being too petrified to follow!”

Vili snorts, his nose brushing against Eivor’s throat when he finally withdraws a little and lifts his head to look Eivor in the eyes. It’s too dark to see any details, to see his lashes sticking together with tears or the wet trails lining his face here and there; but they can see each other, and it’s enough. Eivor holds his hand up to Vili’s cheek and caresses it with his thumb.

“But you were. You were stunned like that deer father shot later.”

“Of course I was, but merely at the sight. I would never imagine such a sack of bones and stones that you were to move with so much grace.”

They tremble with muffled laughter bubbling in their chests, and as the joy subsides, Vili adds:

“Although, that deer was nothing compared to the family of elks my father brought us to see the other day. Giants they were, descendants of the great elks of Asgard, no less. Even the calves. There was a white one among them, do you remember?”

Eivor lets out a tiny sigh. This kind of things is impossible to forget; and the way Styrbjorn was infuriated when he found out later they went there, too. His hand wanders off Vili’s face to rest i the warmth under his bearded chin.

“I couldn’t even see him until he moved, thought he was made of snow.”

“What happened to the herd? Have they all been hunted down eventually?”

“Some. And some left. The white one remained but moved up to the waterfalls. You know, those with steaming water. He grew up to be the largest among them, as well as the most ferocious and blood-thirsty. Many people tried to end him, believing he’s of Loki’s kind.”

“Did you?”

Eivor shakes his head slightly.

“Sometimes I would come there to scratch some lichen off the rocks and toss it down from where he couldn’t see or smell me. Don’t know why exactly. Maybe I thought he felt lonely... I did it a week before leaving to England, too.”

They stay silent again, but this time it lasts until Vili moves his face back into the nook of Eivor’s neck. Then, hardly audible, there comes a confession that rips Eivor apart and stitches him up, all at once:

“You and Trygve are everything I have now.”

For a moment Eivor doesn’t breathe. He feels the salt tingling under his own eyelids, and so he closes them, and he puts his lips to Vili’s hair, and even as he says: “And we have you, Vili,” he remains where he is, hair smelling of smoke, burnt fur and boar fat, distant snow, blood and dirt, and every single thing he has forbidden himself to dream about for all these years.

They reach Snotingham early in the morning, leave the horses in the local stable and set off, wind filling their sails. Some in the crew remember Vili, while Bragi believes it his sacred duty to reminisce a whole lot of embarrassing stories both of them had the misfortune of being involved into in the days of yore. The raiders laugh so hard they scare the birds from the reeds, until a flock of seagulls almost knocks Eivor down from the stern and he grunts: “Bragi, I swear to gods−”, and the good bard treats them with the ballads instead. Vili in the back of the ship enjoys the boisterous company along with the rowing; he talks and laughs there, too, his sorrows finally and fully giving way under the excitements of his new life. As engaged as he is, every time he somehow manages to catch Eivor staring, their eyes lock and contact lingers before Eivor shifts his attention to something on the green banks. Among the agitated heron screams, creaking of the helm, water splashing and thudding in his chest, Eivor hears Bragi’s voice fading as another song comes to its end: “...I was young once, I walked alone and became lost in my way; I felt I was rich when I met another...”

They come ashore in Ravensthorpe when the sun just starts to melt into the river behind their backs. The welcome is quite overwhelming since many of the villagers are surprised to see another familiar face that has changed so much, but still so little. Gunnar almost drops a piece of armor he’s been working on.

“Odin’s beard, if this isn’t the young Hemmingson! Look how tall you are! Our Eivor could probably fit in your pocket now!” Eivor opens his mouth to object, but chokes on his own tongue as Gunnar continues, all joy and good intentions and his usual bluntness: “Are you staying, Vili? Long enough for us to expect a lovely ceremony in the spring?”

He used to tease them constantly when they were children, although they didn’t really understand his jokes as their interests swayed mostly in the direction of bringing him pretty rocks and asking what runes he would carve here and there, and also wondering whether the bigger the rock the stronger its runic power. Eivor glares at him, then up at Vili, then back at Gunnar again, when Vili exclaims, distracted:

“Is that a wolf?!”

“What− whe−” Eivor startles, his eyes sweeping the surroundings to stumble upon the village wolf watching them from the distance. “Eh... it’s a long story. And the road was long too, we need to go. Now!”

He nudges Vili away from the smithy, the back of his neck burning like he’s spent an entire day at the furnace, listening to the stories of Gunnar’s countless wives.

“And was it Dag I sighted back in the docks? He’s still sticking around?”

“He is. And please, don’t try anything funny with him.”

“Wasn’t going to! Unless he starts the fun himself,” Vili grins at him, and Eivor has to elbow him again, this time way harder than before. He just hopes no one else will say more than they are supposed to upon welcoming Vili to the clan.

They part ways for there are too many things to attend to for both of them, and it’s only in the night they see each other again, when the settlers proceed with their own lives at last. Eivor stops in the middle of his room once the sound of approaching footsteps reaches his ears, and turns around to see the tapestry in the doorway swaying lazily behind Vili’s back.

“Saw you going from the bathhouse...” he starts.

They both have shed their armor and the layers of cloth not needed there, where the days are long and full of sun, and the wood and ground radiate with its generous warmth. Now that his furs and leather are off, Vili doesn’t look like a hunched werebear anymore, but an Aesir indeed, just what Trygve called him. His shoulders are broad, and his arms are hardened with battles and heavily inked, and Eivor wouldn’t know where to look at if not for a great axe in his hands.

“Are we at war?”

“No, it’s just−” he comes closer to show the weapon, but Eivor has already recognized the curve of its edge and the binding on its helve. The Hemming’s axe. “I wanted to just sneak in while you’re out, leave it on your desk so you’d have no chance to refuse it.” He smiles crookedly as if not sure how to explain himself, then all at once his eyes lit up with mischief. “I even wrote this note for you, but then realized that you would probably think it’s from Trygve or even Hemming himself, you know...”

Eivor huffs.

“And now you’re going to remind me of that mistake forever, aren’t you, Arse-Stick?”

“Rest assured, I am.”

They chuckle for a moment before Vili makes another step towards him and says in a slightly more serious tone:

“I want you to have it, Eivor. He would have wanted it too. And... ah, there.”

Eivor’s hands strain under the weight, but it’s a nice feeling; he never believed he’d be able to hold up the Hemming’s axe that easily someday, not to mention to even swing it. He neither dares to nor he wants to decline the gift, but he has to put it down as Vili gives him a folded piece of paper. The text inside doesn’t add much to what Vili just told him, and still he goes through the lines again and again.

“What’s taking you so long? You’re trying to make sense of my dragon scratch?”

Eivor feels the corners of his mouth curling up a little, although the beard most likely hides it from Vili’s sight. He says in a low voice:

“It’s the ‘dear Eivor’.” Then he finally lifts his eyes and almost ruins it all: “Did you really write it yourself?”

There is a pause, a tiny slowdown of time before Vili cups his scarred cheek and kisses him, soft and meaningful and so quick Eivor has to stand on tiptoe to follow his lips as they pull away.

“You hair’s still wet.”

“...and what of it? Do I smell like a wet dog again?”

Vili picks up one of his locks, wavy after all the braids were undone, and brings it up to his face, then smiles thoughtfully.

“No, you smell like a summer meadow... full of wet dogs and maybe some shaggy wolves too.”

This time Eivor puts the note away, next to the axe, and kisses Vili himself, and it’s angry and desperate and long enough for their breaths to stutter and their heads to swim. _And it’s not like they are in love;_ they just care about each other, and they missed each other, and they can’t lose each other again, and Eivor− Eivor has just run out of excuses. He guides Vili’s palms from his shoulders to the waist and presses them to the fabric of his tunic until they gather it up and drag it off of him. Vili looks him over, his fingers brushing over Eivor’s skin, from his collarbones down to the navel. He sounds surprised:

“No tattoos...”

The touch is gentle, innocent even in its explorative nature, but this coarse sweep jolts every single nerve inside Eivor’s body to the point he thinks his lungs might collapse.

“I have one... on my back...”

Vili turns him slowly to expose another pair of lungs, drawn on Eivor’s shoulder blades with a knotted spine running from the hollow between them all the way to the waistband of his breeches. The goosebumps pull at his skin as if it’s a pelt stretched on a drying frame, and the second Vili’s hand comes down to follow the lines of his ink, Eivor lets out something that could, perhaps, be called a moan if it wasn’t so broken.

“How far does it go?” Vili exhales into his hair.

“Aren’t you about to find out?”

There is a rustle of cloth behind and the tiniest noise it makes when hitting the floor. Eivor spins back at him, Vili’s chest bare, heaving and littered with old wounds. An ugly one is on its right; Eivor strokes it carefully with just the tips of his fingers, a silent question in his touch.

“An elk in heat, twice as big as those in Norway. We launched at each other, he almost won. Just missed my heart.”

“Because your heart is on the other side, Troll-Brains.”

Eivor slides his palm to the left where a heart is pounding like a hammer against its anvil, strong and hot with life. Vili covers his fingers with his own ones and clutches them for an instant, then loosens the grip as Eivor moves his hands up and around his neck, pulling him into an embrace, and feels Vili’s warmth shrouding him, arms locking around his back and waist, bodies pressed together, chest to chest, Vili’s heart resonating deep inside Eivor’s ribs, and his own frantic one blooming at the sound of it. It’s not− it’s not like they−

_Oh, but they are._


End file.
